The Peripheral by William Gibson

I am so happy that I have finished reading the new (Oct 2014) William Gibson book, “The Peripheral”. 

Science-Fiction was a genre that I grew up with, and now authors like Heinlein (Mars) and Azimov (Robots) have grown and gone.  The past decade or two, I have looked to Gibson to stretch my mind 20 years out:

Pattern Recognition (2005) was about the coming massive impact of computers’ ability to predict future events; he delved into flash mobs controlling public opinion.  Zero History (2011) recognized that retail sales would become dominated by computer companies: Yahoo, Amazon, and Google.  It was a subtle prediction, but real.

Mankind has sought ways to avoid death probably since we recognized we were sentient: theology was an easy way; mummification a little harder; the fountain of youth in more scientific times; Sci-Fi offers tantalizing possibilities as in Pohl’s “HeeChee Saga”.

In “The Peripheral”, Gibson is doing his normal examination of where technology is headed, extending three areas ahead for a few decades: drones, nanotechnology, and 3D-printers.  But he’s also tempted to flirt with immortality of sorts with a glimpse into communications technology that can span time, or to be more exact alternate universes. 

Instant communication is speculative but considered a possibility if we aren’t hindered by our perceived 4-dimensional space-time constraints.

I’m a decent techie reader, but I was totally lost for the first 50 pages; then I had only a glimmer over the next 50 of what was happening.  I love this challenge.  Now at page 120 (of 482), I got it.

“We’ll need to buy specialized printers in the stub,” Lev said.  “This will be beyond what they usually work with.”

“Printers?”

“We’re sending files for printing an autonomic cutout,” said Lev.

“Flynne? When?”

“As soon as possible.  This one will do?”

“I suppose,” said Netherton.

“She’s coming with us then. They’ll deliver the support equipment.”

“Equipment?”

“She doesn’t have a digestive tract. Neither eats nor excretes.  Has to be infused with nutrient every twelve hours.  And Dominika wouldn’t like her at all, so she’ll be staying with you, in grandfather’s yacht.”

“Infused?”

“Ash can deal with that.  She likes outmoded technology.”

Netherton took a drink of gin, regretting the addition of tonic and ice.

The peripheral was looking at him.